(no subject)
Kate?
Kate?
She almost can't hear it, but she can feel herself groan.
"Kate." It's John's voice.
Her eyes flutter open. "John?"
His hand finds her shoulder and she's not sure it's not a dream, but if that's Raven wearing John's shape and he has a cookie in his other hand she's going to punch him.
"Easy," he tells her, his arm there for support as she sits up. "Easy, easy."
She winces, back protesting as she braces herself on one arm. "John--"
The distinctive click of a safety going off interrupts her; John turns warily.
"Are you him?" She doesn't recognize the man's face or his voice, but there's a rifle in his hands and something wild in his eyes. "Are you him?"
***
"We didn't come here to hurt you."
On her feet now, it's all she can do not to rub both hands over her face. She wants to know when her life became all about killer black smoke and sentient bars and food that does stuff to you and whatever one snowman said to the other snowman.
"Yeah? Then why did you come?"
"We were in a plane crash," she offers, a little impatiently.
"Were you now?" The man with the rifle has an accent and a strange jumpsuit but no capacity for sympathy. "And when was that?"
"Forty-four days ago," John answers.
"Forty-four days?" He doesn't believe them. It's not hard to tell. He jabs the rifle at them, nods them forward and further inside. "Move."
She and John don't argue with the rifle. Especially not in close quarters like this.
"How long have you been here?" John is either trying to get the guy's guard down or is genuinely curious, and she's thinking it may be the latter.
"Shut it." Still holding the rifle as steady as possible, he picks up a small coil of rope waiting on the counter top. When he tosses it to her, she catches it against her chest. "Tie him up."
She hesitates, exchanging a glance with John.
"Do it!"
Fine. She's just making her first loop around John's wrists when he raises them in protest.
"Wait! Wait, wait: you're typing up the wrong person."
She's not sure who's more confused: her or the guy with the rifle.
"How's that, brother?"
"It's pointless to tie me up," John goes on. "I'm not dangerous. But her." He gestures with his hands. "She's a fugitive."
Her mouth opens in shock.
"So what does that make you then, brother?"
"I'm a regional collections manager for a cardboard manufacturer. Boxes, primarily."
"All right then, box man." The man nods over his rifle. "Tie her up."
This wasn't what Jack was talking about when they blew the hatch open, but she's pretty sure this counts as a Locke problem. John reaches to take the rope from her, and she looks at him like he's nuts. "Don't you dare touch me."
"Hey!" She looks over in time to see the rifle edge closer. "You be a good girl, right?"
John nudges her shoulder to make her turn, his hands gathering the rope that's gone slack in her hands.
"What do you think you're doing?" she hisses at him.
"I'm doing," he answers very calmly, securing her hands behind her back, "what's best for all of us."
What's best for all of us? She's angry enough that it chases away the discomfort in her back, but what he does next surprises her all over again. Discreetly, using the hand opposite the man with the rifle, he takes the small knife tucked away in his pocket and slides it into her own.
"All right." The man with the rifle decides time is up, and he uses the barrel of the gun to point them to where he wants them again. "Bring her here."
Kate?
She almost can't hear it, but she can feel herself groan.
"Kate." It's John's voice.
Her eyes flutter open. "John?"
His hand finds her shoulder and she's not sure it's not a dream, but if that's Raven wearing John's shape and he has a cookie in his other hand she's going to punch him.
"Easy," he tells her, his arm there for support as she sits up. "Easy, easy."
She winces, back protesting as she braces herself on one arm. "John--"
The distinctive click of a safety going off interrupts her; John turns warily.
"Are you him?" She doesn't recognize the man's face or his voice, but there's a rifle in his hands and something wild in his eyes. "Are you him?"
***
"We didn't come here to hurt you."
On her feet now, it's all she can do not to rub both hands over her face. She wants to know when her life became all about killer black smoke and sentient bars and food that does stuff to you and whatever one snowman said to the other snowman.
"Yeah? Then why did you come?"
"We were in a plane crash," she offers, a little impatiently.
"Were you now?" The man with the rifle has an accent and a strange jumpsuit but no capacity for sympathy. "And when was that?"
"Forty-four days ago," John answers.
"Forty-four days?" He doesn't believe them. It's not hard to tell. He jabs the rifle at them, nods them forward and further inside. "Move."
She and John don't argue with the rifle. Especially not in close quarters like this.
"How long have you been here?" John is either trying to get the guy's guard down or is genuinely curious, and she's thinking it may be the latter.
"Shut it." Still holding the rifle as steady as possible, he picks up a small coil of rope waiting on the counter top. When he tosses it to her, she catches it against her chest. "Tie him up."
She hesitates, exchanging a glance with John.
"Do it!"
Fine. She's just making her first loop around John's wrists when he raises them in protest.
"Wait! Wait, wait: you're typing up the wrong person."
She's not sure who's more confused: her or the guy with the rifle.
"How's that, brother?"
"It's pointless to tie me up," John goes on. "I'm not dangerous. But her." He gestures with his hands. "She's a fugitive."
Her mouth opens in shock.
"So what does that make you then, brother?"
"I'm a regional collections manager for a cardboard manufacturer. Boxes, primarily."
"All right then, box man." The man nods over his rifle. "Tie her up."
This wasn't what Jack was talking about when they blew the hatch open, but she's pretty sure this counts as a Locke problem. John reaches to take the rope from her, and she looks at him like he's nuts. "Don't you dare touch me."
"Hey!" She looks over in time to see the rifle edge closer. "You be a good girl, right?"
John nudges her shoulder to make her turn, his hands gathering the rope that's gone slack in her hands.
"What do you think you're doing?" she hisses at him.
"I'm doing," he answers very calmly, securing her hands behind her back, "what's best for all of us."
What's best for all of us? She's angry enough that it chases away the discomfort in her back, but what he does next surprises her all over again. Discreetly, using the hand opposite the man with the rifle, he takes the small knife tucked away in his pocket and slides it into her own.
"All right." The man with the rifle decides time is up, and he uses the barrel of the gun to point them to where he wants them again. "Bring her here."